


The Dominion Protocol

by Dendritic_Trees



Category: Laundry - Charles Stross, Supernatural
Genre: AUish, Computational Demonology, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Demons, Eldrich Abomination, Espionage, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:05:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dendritic_Trees/pseuds/Dendritic_Trees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester wanted a normal life and he had traveled all the way to Oxford to get one.  Then his girlfriend Jessica Moore is killed in a fire and he's sucked back into Hunting. </p><p>Hunting on British soil has put Sam square in the sights of Her Majesty's Occult Secret Service, or The Laundry, to those in the know.  Conscription to The Laundry isn't even a bad deal.  There's nothing quite as normal as a civil servant after all, even when you account for the occasional midnight raids on demonic cults.</p><p>But the Sleeper in the Pyramid is stirring, CASE NIGHTMARE GREEN is increasingly imminent and The Black Chamber are becoming increasingly indistinguishable from the cults its supposed to be hunting and Sam may have to make a trip home to deal with those nightmares he's been having.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Section Three

**Author's Note:**

> Some alterations to Laundry and Supernatural mythology have been made to reconcile the two canons.

Graduation was on Saturday, Jess died the following Tuesday. Everyone was incredibly nice. A whole collection of classmates and teachers kept popping up, offering him sympathy and food, and asking if he needed a place to stay. Even the cops were nice. He talked to a pair of regular cops on the scene, a detective and an arson investigator, and they all treated him like spun glass and rest their hands on his shoulder while they asked him questions and he lied about half the answers. Sam very nearly asked if British cops were all like that, but then he realized that this was also the first time he’d talked to a policeman and not been suspected of something, so maybe American cops would have been nice too.

In the end it all paled in comparison to the yawning vengeful pit sitting in his chest and Sam left Oxford alone in the dead of night. He recklessly thought that it would be just like old times, and realized crushingly quickly that it wouldn’t be. Britain doesn’t have any wide open spaces to disappear across, there are fewer jurisdictional boundaries to slip between, there are security cameras on what seems like every corner, there are no guns anywhere and his accent makes it nearly impossible for him to pass for law enforcement. He knew on some level that he couldn’t be a hunter here the way his Dad had been Stateside but he was too angry to stop. So he gave it his best effort. And Sam’s best had always been very, very good.

Three weeks and two stolen shotguns later he walked out of his motel room was ambushed by a man in black body armour. Sam had at least six inches and twenty pounds on his assailant, but it apparently wasn’t enough to keep him from ending up on the ground in a carotid choke.

Sam probably only blacked out for a few moments but it was enough time for him to be shoved into a car with his hands zip-tied behind his back. They didn’t read him his rights, they didn’t ask his name, they didn’t talk at all, even as the moved from the car to a helicopter and from the helicopter into a building. By then it was too dark to see where they were and there weren’t many streetlights. Sam heard waves for a few second between the helicopter rotors slowing into quiet and being marched inside, but it wasn’t enough to orient to and he couldn’t judge distance in the air. They went straight down five flights of stairs and stuck him in the interrogation room from every movie ever, complete with metal table, uncomfortable chairs, fluorescent lights and a complete lack of windows. They were, at least, considerate enough to cut his hands loose before they left and locked the door behind, leaving Sam to try and rub some feeling back into his shoulders and wrists.

They left him to stew for fifteen minutes by Sam’s watch before two people came back in. One was the man who had grabbed him, or at least someone with very similar build. Even in midnight camo and military body armor he wasn’t a particularly impressive figure; short and pale, with thinning hair and large glasses, he didn’t look like a soldier, or a police officer, or really anyone who would be able to take Sam in a fight. His companion shouldn’t have been intimidating either, he was a scrawny old man in suit that didn’t fit very well, but he was making Sam’s skin crawl without having done a thing.

The older man was carrying a briefcase and two mugs. He put the briefcase on the ground and the mugs on the table, and pushed one over to Sam. It was full of tea. “Do you take sugar?” He asked, retrieving a handful of sugar packets from his jacket pocket.

Sam burst out laughing.

“Sam Winchester, I am Detached Special Secretary Dr James Angelton,” Angleton introduced himself, once Sam had calmed down. “I am arresting you in violation of Section Three of the Official Secrets Act.” He paused. “Also, credit card fraud, illegal possession of firearms, grave desecration and breaking and entering.” Angleton punctuated every charge but the first with a dismissive little wave.

Sam could have thrown off every charge but the first with a clever retort, but “The Official Secrets Act? What? I mean, how?” he gaped.

Angleton smiled; Sam’s stomach sunk into the floor. “Can’t you guess? No? Well, let’s begin. It’s a funny story isn’t it, your girlfriend dies in a tragic fire, which is ruled accidental and a month later you’re running across the country with a stolen firearm causing consternation among local law enforcement. That’s the official story, at least. Are you going to make me tell you the real one? Its rather longer and I’m very busy.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Sam said, even though he did. “I don’t know any state secrets, I think this is illegal and I want to see a lawyer, I mean a solicitor.”

Angleton nodded. “You are not entitled to any sort of representation at all during these proceedings, but if you feel you are being mistreated, I can summon a representative of the Operational Oversight Committee to monitor my actions.”

It could not have been clearer how screwed Sam was, but he was all out of quips, so he settled for setting his jaw and staring silently at Angleton.

Angleton smiled thinly in return. “Sam Winchester, born May 2, 1983 in Lawrence Kansas USA. Parents; Mary Winchester and John Winchester and one older brother, Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979. Your mother died six months later on November 2, 1983 in a house fire, her body was never recovered. The fire was investigated by local police and ruled accidental. I’m assuming you have no memory this event?”

Sam kept staring, Angleton kept smiling and he was older, calmer and better rested. “No, I don’t remember anything, I was six months old.” Sam spat out.

“Just so.” Angleton paused and extracted a rather overly full beige file folder from his briefcase. “And more recently, one Jessica Lee Moore, killed in a fire, in a dorm room in Magdalen College, Oxford, her body was also never recovered and the fire was also ruled accidental by local authorities.” He continued.

“Are you implying something?” Sam asked.

“I think I’m rather stating it outright.” Angleton replied. “But we can come back to that. Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? I want you to tell me what your father told you about your mother’s death.”

Oh yes, Sam was very, deeply screwed, but he never did know when to quit. “My mother died in a fire.” He answered. “It was a very tragic accident, but I was too young to remember it.”

“I should inform you Sam, that while I have great faith in your ability to stonewall me for what I’m sure would be an exceptional length of time, if I have to make you to answer me truthfully, you are unlikely to enjoy it.”

Sam looked Angleton over. He was rail thin. “Are you planning on working me over?” He asked.

Angleton raised his eyebrows. “Good gracious, no, merely Compel you. Your choice.”

Sam could hear the hint of a capital on compel, and he didn’t know what it signified but he was being held underground without a lawyer, and he was exhausted, and he folded. “My father told me that my mother was burned on the ceiling.”

Angleton visibly relaxed and smiled more like a person and less like a shark. “Do please elaborate.” He asked.

“My father heard a scream, he came into my nursery and saw the fire. My mother was dead and pinned on the ceiling. That’s all I know. He didn’t like to talk about it, my brother either, so if you’re looking for details, you’re out of luck.” Sam said.

“The ceiling? You’re quite certain?” Angleton asked. Sam nodded. Angleton stood up abruptly. “Well, that is very interesting. Sam, this is Major Alan Barnes, show Sam his accommodations, I have to pull some files. If you’ll excuse me gentlemen.” Then he swept his beige file folder back into his briefcase and left the room.

“Are you going to behave, or do we have to go through the whole rigmarole with the handcuffs.” Major Barnes asked brightly. He seemed unfairly energetic, despite having been standing for the whole interrogation.

“No. I can manage.” Sam answered. “Jolly good.” Said Major Barnes, and opened the door.

Not cuffing him probably had less to do with a gesture of goodwill and more with simple architectural reality. They walked down a series of straight underground hallways and since the Major was still covering Sam with a handgun as they walked, there was simply no place for Sam to go. They put him in a motel room rather than a cell. There were bars on the windows, and the door locked on the outside, but it was nicer than most of the placed he had been staying, and there was food in a takeout container left on one of the counters, so Sam elected to focus on being comfortable and well fed, rather than the long and growing list of things that just weren’t right.

 

They gave Sam six hours grace, he slept for maybe three, then he was back in the interrogation room with Angleton, this time accompanied by a woman wearing a white coat and carrying a phlebotomy kit. Sam immediately folded his arms across his chest.

“Sam, this is Dr Judith Matthews. I’d like to have her draw some blood, if that’s alright with you.” Angleton asked, in the same voice he used to ask about Sam’s mother’s death and how he took his tea.

“Well, it’s not, so tough,” said Sam.

Angleton aimed another selachian smile at him in return. “A pity, because I was going to give you a copy of this, in exchange.” He retrieved another of his beige folders, stamped with the words SAFFRON CONSCRIPT, and flipped it neatly to the middle. He kept it open just long enough for Sam to see and realize what he was seeing before he snapped the folder shut and tucked it out of sight.

Sam grimaced, rolled up his sleeve and held out his arm. The medic, Dr Matthews, walked over and took four vials of Sam’s blood with nothing but a curt “Thank you” when she finished and withdrew, leaving Sam alone with Angleton, who passed Sam the promised file, but didn’t give him time to so much as glance at it and moved straight onto his questions.

By the end of the day Sam regretted the hours he had spent peering through the windows trying to figure out where he was, rather than sleeping. Angleton seemed to want to write an especially detailed version of Sam’s biography. He asked about every town, every school, every detail Sam could remember about every job his father had ever worked, all in the same flat tone. He could also keep it up for ten hours at a stretch; taking notes with the same unhurried focus when Sam was slumped over the table with his eyes half shut as he did first thing in the morning, when Sam was still gulping coffee. He added insult to injury by fact-checking everything Sam said against a very thick file of newspaper clippings police reports and, apparently, every report card Sam had ever received.


	2. SAFFRON CONSCRIPT

They spent three days that way, hauling Sam into an interrogation room, pumping him for information, then sticking him back in his room when they were done. On the fourth day, Angleton, Dr Matthews and Alan all filed into his room instead. Angleton, who had spent Sam’s entire acquaintance with him alternating between an expression of polite indifference and one of vague amusement, was frowning. Sam was very familiar with that particular frown, everyone who asked him about Jessica had worn that frown.

“I don’t suppose,” he asked, “that you’ve had time to look over that file?”

“I started on it.” Sam replied. This was only half a bluff. He had started, but he’d been so exhausted and paradoxically restless that he’d barely read three pages (all annotated medieval manuscripts).

“Allow me to summarize,” Angleton started. “The file contains the majority of our information on the demon Azazel. Azazel, like many demons makes deals. I assume you’re familiar with the principle?”

Sam nodded.

“Typically, a demon will deal in souls. Azazel is something of an exception. He takes something very, specific. Look here.” Angleton pulled out his own copy of Azazel’s file and starts flipping through it. “There’s a lot of rumours that have amassed over the years, about exactly what he does. Its long been known, for instance, that he has a truly unfortunate tendency to turn up in infant’s nurseries.”

“That’s where my mom died.” Sam mumbled.

“Just so,” Angleton continued, “which brings us to an old case of mine.” He leafed forward through his file, leaving it open to a copy of an old report, in German. “Its been fairly well established that what Azazel wants is children. He always shows up in nurseries and its always nurseries with six month old children. There’s no correlation with birth order and the children don’t go missing.” Angleton pointed to one chart near the bottom of the page, a nearly horizontal scatterplot, which Sam had to assume was related to what Angleton was saying.

“Look, could you just skip the lecture and tell me your terrible news already.” Sam cut in. “Because you really aren’t making it any better.”

This must have pleased Angleton, because he smiled again. “As you wish. Azazel doesn’t always cause fires, that’s only when he’s disturbed. Identifying Azazel’s targets has actually only been feasible in the last 20 years or so and is best done, as you might have surmised had you been paying attention, via a blood test.” He steepled his hands, leant back and watched Sam process the news.

“Blood? My blood?” Sam asked plaintively.

Angleton’s explanation had knocked any last traces of fight out of him, “What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” said Angelton, “exposure to demonic blood leaves a permanent thaumatergic trace in the bloodstream. In this line of work, you’ll probably find it down right useful.”

Sam could feel the pressure building up just behind his eyes again, and he didn’t dare talk immediately, so he just sat there, gasping air up into his sinuses in an attempt to not cry in front of a room full of slightly hostile strangers. “Demon blood?” he gasped, “there’s demon blood in me?”

Angleton rolled his eyes, “that is what I said, if you could save the hysterics? No? Very well, I’ll give you a minute then.” He got up and swept out of the room. Alan followed him. Dr Matthews leant on the counter and said nothing when Sam abruptly disappeared into the bathroom.

 

Sam didn’t actually throw up, but did spend what felt like about a month curled up on the floor first trying not to cry, then trying to cry silently. Being sick would, at least, have been more decisive. Eventually he managed to pick himself up off the floor and wash his face. After a few more minutes, he worked up the courage to go back outside. Dr Matthews had settled into a chair in his absence, and was waiting for him, looking completely and bizarrely unconcerned.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked.

“No,” muttered Sam.

“Well, I realise it must sound alarming,” said Judith, still neutrally. “Why don’t you sit down.” She gestured to the edge of the bed.

Sam sat down and braced himself for he wasn’t quite sure what, but Judith simply started explaining what a ‘thaumaturgic trace’ was. It was like the world’s strangest doctor’s appointment. There were a few forms, sheets of blood test results, and many reassurances, none of which made him feel any better. By ten minutes into Judith’s explanation, Sam thought it actually might have been easier if she had been telling him he had leukemia. At the very least she might have given some appearance of taking the situation seriously, instead, she just chatted on, first explaining a lot of theory he might have been interested in if it hadn’t been his blood they were discussing, and then describing the various effects of having demon blood, as though it was like having low blood pressure, instead of being a monster.

“So,” Judith finished up, “as you can see, in and of itself this won’t present much of an issue, and it actually acts as a neuroprotective factor under certain thaumatological conditions.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know, get rid of it?” Sam asked, “I just want it gone.”

“No, I’m sorry, it _quite_ permanent,” said Judith. “It really shouldn’t cause you any bother, I’ve never had a case of it causing problems for any of our field agents.”

_At least if he’d had leukemia, he might have had some options_. For just a fraction of a second one corner of Sam’s mind added that even if he didn’t he’d be dead and not a demon. But he pushed that thought away.

Some part of it might have shown on his face though, because Judith finally spared Sam a smile and a brief pat on the wrist before she continued, “you’ll adjust to the idea, I’m sure. This does not have to be as bad as you’re making it.”

Sam pulled his hand back and sat on the bed for a minute carding his fingers through his hair and trying to steady his breathing again.

“Alright Sam, one last question and I’ll leave you be,” said Judith, “have you found that you have any new – abilities? Unusual experiences?”

Sam remembered weeks’ worth of nightmares of Jessica on the ceiling and said “No, nothing.” Judith gave him a long, flat look, but she didn’t call him on it, “thaumatergic traces sometimes come with psychic powers, and we like to keep an eye on those, so if anything comes up, let me know.” Then she got up and left.

Sam got about thirty seconds grace before Angleton walked back into the room. “You’re up to date now, I take it?” Sam managed a nod. “Onto business then,” said Angleton, “knowledge of supernatural phenomena is restricted to agents of Her Majesty’s government with appropriate clearance, possession of this knowledge as a civilian, puts you in violation of the Official Secrets Act, which you must now sign.” Then he slid the document in question across the desk to Sam. Along with a lancet, a dip pen and a sharps container. It took Sam a bit longer than it perhaps should have to figure out that Angleton expected him to not only sign the Official Secrets Act, but to sign in blood.

If he hadn’t had such a rough morning, Sam might have protested, but as it was, he just did as he was told.

“There, and now its all nice and legal, doesn’t that feel better?” Angleton asked as he tidied the used sharps away.

Sam pointedly did not mention the stolen guns, or any of the other crimes Angleton was apparently forgetting, or just deliberately ignoring.

“So now that I don’t have to detain you, you have two options. The first is that you forget any of this ever happened. You tell no one, and I promise we’ll make sure you can’t, and you go on with your life, and you leave all the supernatural business to the professionals. Two you can come and be one of the good guys, so to speak, and we’ll find a good use for all your interesting talents.” Angleton said, his eyes had reacquired their flat, shark look.

“You’d do that,” said Sam, “let me ‘go on with my life’?”

“With a few failsafes, but yes. You can go off to law school and have a nice ordinary life,” said Angleton, a bit pointedly. “Of course, if that should turn into a, shall we say, less ordinary life, you won’t enjoy what happens next. You don’t get to mix and match, as it were.”

Sam might have been having one of the worst mornings of his life, but Angleton’s brand of politely bureaucratic non-threats were still managing to scrape away at his patience. “Well maybe I’ll just go home,” he said, “you’re British Intelligence, or Army, or whatever, I’m American, you can’t just come and kidnap me there.”

Angleton’s expression didn’t change, but Sam made the mistake of looking up to see Alan suppressing a wince. When Sam met his eyes he said, “you don’t want to be doing that mate.”

Angleton looked over his shoulder at Alan and raised his eyebrows precipitously.

“Oh don’t give me that look you old bat,” said Alan, “you’re going to have to tell him anyway.”

Angleton didn’t say anything in return, he just pulled yet another of his endless supply of beige folders out of his briefcase. He opened this one and slid it over to Sam. Sam read it. By a third of the way down he was back to trying not to sob in front of strangers. By the time he’d finished he’d moved on to trying not to vomit. “I don’t understand.” He gasped.

“I’ll summarise,” said Angleton dryly. “you aren’t an American citizen because according to the outcome of Marsh v. United States having any kind of demon blood renders you ineligible or citizenship or civil rights. If you want to go back to America and take your chances with the Black Chamber, go ahead, but don’t expect them to be as nice as me.”

Under different circumstances, Sam might have commented on the fact that Angleton had had him kidnapped by commandos and was holding him against his will and without legal representation and was now describing himself as nice. But as it was he just stammered, “Wh-what?”

“The choice is yours. Let me know tomorrow,” said Angleton. Then he left again.

Alan slid into the chair Angleton had vacated. “Sorry about him,” he said. “giving information to civilians hurts his face. Here’s what you need to know. Don’t go back to the States. We call the Black Chamber the Nazgul for a reason. They will find you. They consider you equipment. I’m so sorry.”  Then he left too.

 

Sam didn’t move. There was a small part of his brain still functioning well enough to remind him that he had just been given less than twenty-four hours to make a decision that was going to decide his whole life. The rest of his brain, including all the parts required to make that decision had frozen up under some combination of demon blood/not human/don’t go back to the States/Official Secrets/demon blood/demon blood/demon blood. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because he dreamed of blood and fire and woke up sprawled sideways across the bed, still dressed.

Angleton came back in without knocking not long after Sam woke up. “Time’s up, my boy.” He said bluntly, setting two pieces of paper on the desk with another pen and lancet, so that Sam could make his decision, not only permanently, but in blood.

“Okay,” said Sam. “I’m in, I’ll be one of the good guys.”

Despite everything, he signed with a flourish.


End file.
